It's A Long Way Down
by MorningGloryBlue
Summary: (AU) Killian smiles, bright and roguish at her, and offers his hand. Emma really shouldn't take his hand, or anything else he wants to offer, but for some reason she does. Or; Emma is a CIA agent, Killian a conman and nothing goes quite according to plan.
1. Chapter 1

Written for Captain Swan Secret Santa! Have a very Merry Christmas trueloveinneverland! I've had a lot of fun being your secret santa, and I hope you enjoy. :)

(I apologize in advance for my inevitable grammar/spelling mistakes, feel free to point them out)

* * *

Regina's office was pristine. The sort of office you would expect of someone heading a top CIA unit, all elegant mahogany furniture, blue grey walls, and spotless hardwood floors that made it impossible to come in unheard. Regina's smile is frosty at best when Emma strides in, purposely late and after everyone has gone home.

An impressive beige file folder hit the desk with a smack, and Regina waved a hand towards a chair. Emma took the file and sat.

"Killian Jones."

Emma narrows her eyes.

"Isn't he the one that sold the AKs to Robert Gold? A pirate of sorts?"

"Yes," Regina purses her lips in distaste, clearly thinking of last month's fiasco where weaponry the CIA was supposed to intercept, blew a New Jersey doc to hell leaving a contact presumed dead, and an agent still in a coma. Emma suppresses a shudder. Aurora's boyfriend of less than a year hadn't a clue what she really did for a living till after the accident. What a fantastic way to find out. Worse still, Aurora's closest friend was still in deep cover, and no one wanted to be the one to break the news.

"He's generally a con man for hire, wanted in numerous countries; stolen everything from rare paintings to machine guns. But we don't care if he's stolen the Mona Lisa. What we care about is the weaponry. I want suppliers, buyers, shipping routes, everything you can squeeze out of him." Regina placed both hands securely on the desk and leaned forward.

"More importantly, I want to know why he decided to blow Gold to smithereens."

"Deep cover?." Regina shrugs, and Emma feels bitterness burst like a pomegranate seed in her mouth.

"Only for however long it takes to convince him. I'm not picky with what method you choose. Graham and Ruby will also be working with you."

Now that was interesting. For a brief moment Emma remembers how happy she'd been that one night, buoyed by a few too many beers and finally unloaded to Graham a secret she hadn't known he could use against her till he did. Not that he did, truly, but he told someone who could, and did.

Regina frowns at Emma, those hawk like eyes skilled at spotting specs of dust and fingerprints on walls and reading the animosity simmering under her agent's skin.

"We might have something about your son. You'll be allowed to pursue the lead once you've wrapped things up with Jones."

Emma looks up darkly into Regina's eyes, Green challenging dark, dark brown. There are no windows in her office for security reasons, and everyone else has long since gone home, causing the lamplight to cast sinister shadows around the room.

"I want my son, Regina. Not just a lead, that you'll allow me maybe a week to look into."

It was past thanksgiving and Christmas was rapidly approaching and she should at least know her son's name by now. Regina cocks her head and gazes at Emma as if she's a puppy who's just just performed an unexpected trick.

"His name is Henry," she finally sighs, as if she was a parent indulging in the whim of her unruly teenager, "Give me Killian Jones, and I will give you the three potential locations I've found for him."

Well then, Emma thought, and Regina gave one of those chilled smiles.

"Don't doubt that I will come to collect."

"How could I ever. Your flight leaves at eleven."

. . .

"What are you thinking?"

The heal of Emma's palm pressed into her cheek, as she reviewed the Jones' file again. An impressive and varied resume of stolen items, attractive, nice blue eyes and a proclivity for danger. Someone who reminded her vaguely of the classic James Bond movies, and that one character on White Collar that Ruby would always to giggle over, then lament once it came out the actor who played him was gay.

"I'm thinking," she sighs and flips the file closed, "that I get to be a honey trap. I hate being a honey trap."

Emma slumps over on the desk in the the abandoned apartment building they're hiding out in and blows away a patch dust with a puff of air. The particles and the gold tints in Graham's curls catch and shimmer in the late afternoon light. Across from her, Graham pulls up a corner of his mouth. It really was a pity Regina had him squashed under her thumb.

Not for the first time, she wonders how.

"You said Ruby had sent in a report?"

"Yeah," Graham nods, and hands over the file Ruby had been compiling the past week. Pictures of Jones' enjoying all that Paris had to offer, smiling at attractive Parisian women and them smiling back, ducking into expensive and hole in the wall restaurants, him talking to pudgy man with a red beanie; A transcript of all of his activities, punctuated by Ruby's colorful humor. All seemingly innocent. He was staying in a hotel room above a club that he'd visited almost every night of his stay. Ruby had noted she was sure he'd be there again tonight.

Her clock reads 4:47. Time to get ready.

. . .

The club was a jumbled mass of sequined, scantily clad bodies and pulsing strobe lights with the scent of alcohol, sweat and smoke thick in the air. Music thumped and Emma could feel the base reverberate through her heels. Her necklace and switchblade were reassuring weights against her clavicle and thigh; the knife for immediate protection, and the necklace for back up if needed. Graham had essentially created miniscule a panic button the shape of a sterling circle.

Ruby sat on a bar stool from across the room, prettily sipping her white russian and smiling at the bartender. So much for not drinking while on duty. Emma caught her eye and threw a knowing smirk and Ruby glowered before suddenly perking up and glancing towards one of the darkened booths in the back where the richer clients could separate themselves from the commoners.

Emma gave a slight nod. She glanced towards the booth and found Jones with difficulty. He seemed to blend naturally into the shadows; black leather jacket, dark wash jeans and dark hair and eyes. She pushed back her shoulders and searched for an opening in the crowd. He was talking to another man with the same red beanie, grinning bemusedly. When it appeared he was about to look up, Emma made her way into the opening, "pardon. excuse-moi," flicked her blond curls over her shoulder and glanced up under heavily mascaraed lashes just in time to meet his eyes, lingering, then turned away and take a seat at the bar. Ruby smoothly pushed a crystalline glass of whiskey on the rocks over to Emma, who smiled.

"Hook, line and sinker. Have you been practicing Swan?" Ruby breathed before heading off to watch from afar. Not even a minute later, he slides up next to her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I have to say, red certainly is your color."

Emma turns. Maybe it's a good thing she's spent as much time around Graham as she has; Perhaps it's made her more desensitized to attractive men with European accents.

"Oh, thanks," she says. Crosses her legs, straightens her back, takes a mouthful of her whiskey. The whiskey is smooth, the burn reassuring and with the way Jones is smiling at her, she can almost pretend that they're just attractive strangers meeting for the first time.

"So what brings you to the city of lights?"

"You first, Irishman."

Jones' gives her an appreciative smile and waves a hand at the bartender who promptly brings him two fingers of rum without him having to ask.

"Some business, mostly pleasure." He smiles again at her, downs his rum.

"It was supposed to be all business."

She smiles widely at him, burgundy lips seductive against ivory teeth, and takes another sip of her whiskey without taking her eyes off his, reveling in the warm burn that slides down her throat. Jones' blue eyes darken.

"I challenge you to let me remedy that Love," he says and oh, this feels way too easy. He slides off the bar stool and offers her his hand. Smiles roguishly, promise burning in his eyes.

Emma lets herself hesitate. There is something all too predatory in his eyes that doesn't sit right with her. But when a flicker of hot pink sequins catches her eye, she calms, knowing that Ruby (and Graham, despite his mysterious loyalties) won't let her be ravaged by Jones' burning eyes and wolfish smiles.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

The music is bouncy and, while not what Emma enjoys, serves its purpose well. His hands are have a solid purchase on her hips and she can feel them ignite a simmer of _something_ between them. She closes her eyes and smiles when she feels Jones place a rum laced on her bare shoulder. "Lovely," he whispers against her skin, and Emma almost thinks he sounds surprised. When he moves behind her that heat begins to boil, his chest lean and almost insufferably hot against her back in the soupy air of the club.

"Let's make tonight memorable, shall we?" he whispers into the delicate shell of her ear, one hand splayed hot against her stomach. With any luck he'll think that all she wants is a one night stand, then she'll reel him back in.

This time she doesn't bother to hesitate, and follows him out of the club, and up into the darkening stairwell.

His room was on the second to the top, and Ruby had noted, had a fire escape, handy for a quick getaway. The room was nice enough, clean but sparse and it appeared housecleaning had recently gone through. She had barely managed to look around, when Jones pulled her against him, hands gripping her hips, and begins to place hot kiss after hot kiss up the column of her neck. There was a familiar tightening sensation in her stomach, a pooling of heat between her legs, and Emma lets herself sigh and her hands grip his shoulder and thread through his hair.

"Name?"

"You first," she says feeling uncharacteristically breathless, and tugs his lips to hers. He tastes faintly of chocolate and rum, and the smell cotton and the leather of his jacket gently tickle her nose. Her hands crush the collar of his jacket, and his own tangle in her hair and slip inside the cut out back of her dress to caress the silky skin of her rib cage. He's a good kisser, better then she's had for a while now, all hot lips, burning hands and shivers that shoot down her spine.

"You can call me Captain, if you want" he breathes against her lips, and Emma almost bursts out giggling.

"Is that a fetish of yours?"

Jones smiles at that and again goes to whisper in her ear. But then he also slips his hand out from her dress, and Emma feels herself shiver from something very different from lust. It shouldn't be this easy. Her necklace feels heavy against her chest, and she can feel panic begin to rise, _what gave me away?_ His hand drifts slowly to his back pocket, and Emma decides she's not taking any chances, and shoves him back, hard. He stumbles, and his hand fists her blond hair viciously tight, then uses that leverage to slam her onto the carpet . Emma's eyes water. He's back on her in a flash, again grabbing her hair, and Emma throws her elbow back, left then right nailing him in the stomach both times. Jones doubles over, snarls and Emma considers going for the switchblade, but decides against it. She's at least cracked two of his ribs, and they still need his cooperation, unlikely as that seems now. Jones throws a sloppy punch at her. and Emma catches it, kicks his knee and sends him tumbling to the floor like a stack of cards. The trouble comes when she waits a moment too long to hold him down, and he flips Emma over and together they tumble onto the rough carpet floor. One arm is twisted uncomfortably under her back, hand crumpled beneath her tail bone, the other pinned to the ground by his hand, and his knee a suffocating pressure on her chest. The panic necklace had gotten tangled in her hair and is infuriatingly out of reach.

They are both breathing hard, and she almost thinks there is a gleam of respect in his eyes.

"This isn't what I thought you meant when you said memorable," Emma wheezes out. He chuckles coldly, but it sounds more like coughing. It's getting harder and harder to breathe, to think clearly, and Jones only seems to be digging his knee harder and harder into her only thing she can think clearly about right now, is her son, the squabbling, crimson cheeked, perfect little boy she hadn't been able to raise. That she would never be able to apologize for missing out on every Christmas, every birthday, because this bastard thinks he could just take her out. And that makes her furious.

"Now," Jones says, something very ugly on his face and takes a wickedly sharp knife out of his pocket and pressing it insistently against the hollow of her throat, "You are going to tell me everything you know about Robert Fucking Gold."

. . .

Robert Gold, broker of Faustian deals and a seller of high grade weaponry. Now he had stirred up Regina's fury like Emma had never seen. The Fiasco was supposed to be a simple matter of intercepting Gold's order of stolen (by Killian Jones) AK57s that had gone sour. But Emma would have to save her questions for Jones till later.

The switchblade had stayed secure to the back of her thigh and the dress had ridden up enough so that if Emma could just get enough room, the tips of her nails would just be able grip the top of the handle.

Regina was going to be furious if she died. Or maybe pleased, Emma was never quite sure how much her boss actually disliked her.

"And you are going to tell me, or I will slit your throat, carve out your heart and deliver it with a bow to your boss."

He pressed the knife to emphasize the point, and Emma could feel a thin trail of blood trickle down her throat. She shifted her hips and the bitter, cold sting of his knife increased. Emma's fingers just grasped the top of her switchblades handle

Oh she was going to make him pay for that. But first thing first, get his knee off her chest.

"If… Icoul..d...brea..th"

Jones scowled at that and lessens the pressure on her lungs just enough for her to get a half lung of air.

"If only I," _pant_, "actually worked for Gold?"

"But you know who he is?"

"Only what was in his file."

That snags Jones' interest. He takes the knife off her neck and lessens his knee enough for Emma to breathe with only minimal hindrance. The switchblade came free from its hold and Emma fisted it tightly

Show time, Emma thinks with a grin, bucked her hips and threw her arm out from under her body.

Her fist hit Jones hard and split his cheek open. With a yell, Jones found himself being thrown back and Emma scrambled out from under him, and threw a kick at his nether regions. He folded like an accordion, and Emma flipped open her switchblade with a satisfying swoosh.

"What was that about cutting out my heart?" Emma snarled and held the blade out towards him like a shiv. Again there is challenge burning in his eyes, this time loathsome and cold.

"Now, I the most I know about Gold is that the CIA doesn't like him very much. And they'll like you even less if unless you can persuade me otherwise."

Whatever Jones' was expecting her to say, it wasn't that. Blood was trickling down his chin like a red tear, and his eye was going to be a lovely shade of purple tomorrow, but there was a spark of life in his eyes, an excitement (interest?) there, like a newly lit fire.

"I'm listening Love."

* * *

Stay tuned for part 2 of what I think will be 5!


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Flora Danica is a coffee shop in France. Also there are a couple of references to sign language, because it's cool and a I could imagine some spies using it in a pinch. finger spelling refers to when someone signs out the letters of what they are trying to say rather than a specific sign. This is probably going to end up being five to six chapters, since things are still fairly fluid and I'm one of those people who doesn't always know what they're doing till they actually write it.

All mistakes are mine, I own nothing, you know the drill.

Enjoy!

* * *

The soft moonlight spilling like milk on the floor might have been romantic under different circumstances.

Jones told her he was listening, but her scalp and head are aching, her arms filled with pins and needles and her throat is slick with blood; Emma is more then ready for this night to be over. She flips the switchblade closed, but keeps it firmly in her hand, ready to flip it open if needed. Brings one hand at presses it tight to the bloody line on her throat. Doesn't feel deep, but she will need some sort of bandage pronto. She spots the pillowcases and strides over to the bed.

"There is a first aid kit in the lou if you want it love," Jones says casually as if she had just scraped her knee. Emma purses her lips, annoyed.

"What I want is for you to sit and tell me why you want to kill Gold."

"I'd prefer you tell me more about yourself first. Who did you say you worked for again?" CIA wasn't it?"

"Yes," Emma grits out. Unfortunately, the pillowcase isn't big on cooperating with her and Emma is about to use her knife when Jones gives a large roll of his eyes, as if he hadn't earlier been planning, quite sincerely to slit her throat and pulls himself up. Emma starts, but Jones holds up his hands in surrender and returned a moment later with a large white box, and tossed it on the bed, landing with a soft thump.

Emma looks at him flatly and Jones almost appears offended.

"Try a little trust love, might go a low way."

"You jus- did you just forget the last ten minutes?"

"No, but I think we're going to have a very mutually beneficial relationship," he said with a surprisingly bright smile. Then, more serious, "I don't let potential allies die, love. That would be counter effective."

Emma stared hard at him, and used her knife of the pillowcase. Jones sighs, and Emma twists the torn fabric into a rope, and wraps it around her neck, not once looking away from those burning blue eyes.

"Tell me about the bomb."

Jones chewed his tongue. He then got up and strides to the dresser, turns on the lamp there, and takes out a silver flask which he holds out to Emma. She sneers and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, arms crossed. Jones shrugs and takes a long draught.

"Straight to the point, I like that-"

"Don't change the subject; the bomb, who did it?"

"It wasn't me if that's what you're asking. Rather unfortunately really. It would have made my year to know that I caused Gold's death, but no. Not me."

"But you did you sell the guns to him."

"Yes."

"Then who did plant the bomb?"

Jones scratches the shadow of stubble on his chin, thoughtful. He looks disreputable and dangerous with his steadily blackening eye and the gash on his cheek, but somehow it only adds to his image. Emma hopes his eye throbs.

"Probably Gold. He got his order from me sometime the previous week."

"Now why would he blow his own merchandise to scrap metal?"

"Pan. You know, god of mischief? He's actually a small time domestic terrorist. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility to assume that Gold is dealing to him, nor is the possibility that Gold tried to take him out, and implicate me in the process. Pan may be small time, but I have yet to see him fail. Even I would think twice about stealing from him."

"Now why would a big time weapons dealer like Gold even spare the energy to implicate you in an elaborate plot, hmm?"

There is a spasm of _something_ that spiders out from his eyes, disappearing so quickly Emma isn't quite sure she saw anything at all.

"Oh, for various reasons. We're not very fond of each other."

Emma can still feel his knee pressing hard into her lungs, and the bite of his knife on her neck; can still remember how his eyes had burned and somehow she thinks "For various reasons," is just one big reason that he was never going to tell her. At least not to night.

"But if you don't like him-"

"Not at all." Jones takes another drink from the flask and screws the lid shut.

"Then why sell him weapons?"

"Business is business darling." He smiles, leering.

The lamplight casts a warm, buttery glow that is far stronger than the pale moonlight. For the first time Emma notices just how blue his eyes eyes are, far darker than Aurora's pale winter sky, and more like the sky before nighttime falls. He's lonely, Emma thinks with a flash of intuition. That's a weakness, she hears Regina whisper in her ear, and thinks of her office and how she always kept it below 60 degrees in an effort to make agents uncomfortable there, around her, and pushes it out of her mind.

"Who'd he kill?" and her voice comes out softer than she intended. It's her first mistake.

His face contorts painfully, a knife twisting in his stomach and through he tries to save his stumble with a smile, and the result it bitter and twisted.

"Too many friends then I would care to lose," he takes another long draught from his flask, and drops it back into the dresser.

_Lie,_ a voice whispers in the back of her mind, but Emma doesn't push it. He doesn't need to know she knows better.

"Now, what does the CIA want?"

"What we want is anyone who has bought, or sold weapons from you. Catching Gold would be a perk. In return, well, that depends on what you want."

"I want Robert Gold to pay his dues."

His eyes are comparable to icebergs now, and oh there is hatred there. How does he not think she sees it?

"Anything else?"

"I'm sure I can think of something," he shrugs, eyes back to the color blue before the sky melts into darkness. "Are we done here?"

"For now, yes. Don't leave France in case you hadn't figured that out by now. Monday, Flora Danica's at 8:30am."

"I can hardly wait." He puts his hands deep into his pockets and looks up at her, with a charming half smile; a persuasive thing, even with the black eye and blood pouring from the gash in his cheek. Emma returns it with a hard grin and warily made her way towards the door.

"Love, you know your name would be a lovely addition to our deal."

He almost looks almost endearing now, no doubt trying to win her over. But a damaged heart makes for an excellent barrier from caring too much. She's already been fooled by blue eyes and a charming smile, and she is too old and jaded to let it happen again.

"Don't push it Jones," is all she says, and slipps out the door into the moonlit hallway.

. . .

It's been getting colder.

Regina's heels click on the wet pavement as she walks up to her house and the sky above is ominous and grey. Her house had looked more welcoming in the summer and late spring, when the flowers out front were blooming and fragrant, colorful and cheerful. Now they've all withered from the frost. It wouldn't be practical to hire someone to plant more until spring, Regina thought distastefully, closing the front door with a thud.

She shivers. The house feels like a vault, thick cold air that feels vaguely disturbed. Like someone had walked through the dining room that she rarely even used. She decides investigate once she turned on the heater.

"Hello Deary."

Regina pauses, hand hovering over the on/off switch of the heater.

"Robert Gold. How lovely."

The moment Regina turns to face him, she knows. Gold stands before her with shaking gnarled hands gripping a shabby wooden cane, tangled hair, his face a ghostly pallor and wild eyes that are swimming in desperation. Once upon a time Gold had mentored her mother in the art of spy craft and later bowed his head over her coffin, head weary and comforted a girl whose heart was slowly being covered by frost.

"Gold? What's happened?"

For a moment Regina just reacts and reaches out to him, but Gold pulls away and brings a hand to his face as if he could tear his face off at the thought of physical intimacy. Regina pulls away feeling what she detests to think is regret.

"The, the bombing in New Jersey," he looks away, knuckles white against the dark of his cane,"Your contact, have you found her body?"

A beat. Regina can't hide the sympathy in her eyes.

"No."

Gold walks away unsteadily away from her and the breath catches in Regina's throat at the sight of his tears. Robert Gold never cried, it simply did not happen, not when Cora double crossed him, not when his wife left, taking their son with her, never. Just who was this contact again? An image of a pretty brunette flashes through her head. A humanities lawyer, wasn't she? Practically grew up in a library if Regina remember's Aurora's report correctly.

"She wasn't _supposed_…" he squeezes his eyes closes while Regina flits nervously from the side lines. "I should have expected him to do this, you know. Jones."

His face is impassive now, an unquenchable fury beginning to radiate from within, and there is a viciousness to the way he begins to sew himself back together.

"I have intel on James Nolan among others and-"

"Now what would you have on James Nolan?"

"Oh, Deary," he says, and his smile is wider than a crocodile, "All you need to know is that it would be worth it. You above all should know that I never make a deal that cannot keep."

The image of her Daniel's limp body, and then her mother's sprawled on the floor flashes through her mind.

"That you will not fulfill your side of the deal is not what I'm worried about. And you know it."

"Then give me Killian Jones. Fake his death, I don't care, you won't see him, nor his body again anyways, and you will know at least one skeleton in every US politician's closet."

There is something very ugly on his face, carved on, twisting every feature.

"Now do we have a deal, Regina?"

"...Yes."

. . .

Graham's fast asleep in the recliner, and Ruby is curled up on one of the beds, a cat with a coat of pink sequins. She'd bothered Emma all the way back from the club with question after question, and Graham's eyes had widened with concern when he saw the fabric choker wrapped around her neck. Emma brushed away the questions and their concern, preferring to replace the makeshift bandage for gauze and medical tape by herself.

The burn phone lay in front of her, fully charged and ready for use, even as Emma wishes she could further stall having to call Regina for an update. The task of finding Gold feels daunting, and all Emma wants to do is curl up on her own make shift camp bed and fall fast asleep. Suddenly, she flips it open with a snap, and punches in Regina's number.

"Hello?" Regina answers on the first ring.

"This is Swan. I've made contact."

"Oh? And how did that go?"

Emma scrunches up her nose, and decides to gloss over a few facts.

"Things didn't go quite how I expected, but he'll give us his info on his weaponry deals if we can give him Robert Gold. He also said that he wasn't the one to plant the bomb."

A pause.

"And who did he say did?"

"Gold. Jones said that while he did sell the weapons to him, Gold was planning on reselling them to someone named Pan. I've made plans to meet Jones again in three days."

"Tell him that he can have Gold for an hour, but that he must hand him over alive. And Swan, try and figure out the whole story regarding the bombing. Something isn't right here. We'll deal with finding Gold when you get back."

Emma closes the phone gently and slumps into her chair, aching and bone tired.

. . .

Emma stirs her coffee, grumpy, wishing for the hot chocolate two german children were delighting over two tables away. Graham's been difficult this morning, insisting he should be in the coffee house with her for back up, which isn't totally unreasonable, but his vehemence made even Ruby give him an odd look. So she agreed, keeping her cards close to her chest. Plus, he was the best at maneuvering his way around the world of electronics, and that meant Emma didn't need to worry if she set up the tiny sound recorder hidden in the table's flower vase correctly. Ruby, bless her heart, had testily told Emma and Graham that if she wasn't needed, she was going to get her beauty sleep, thank you very much.

Across the room, Graham looks up from his battered copy of _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_, and jerks his head towards the door. Emma glowers at him, because she already knew Jones was there, his confidence distinctive as the crimson of his shirt.

Jones settles himself in the chair across from her, a coffee in one hand and two croissants wrapped in parchment held between his fingers.

"How's the neck darling?"

"Fine, how's the black eye?", she asks calmly. The gauze feels thick and heavy around her neck, and Emma unconsciously tugs at her turtleneck.

"Once the swelling went down it was fine. Now, what deal have you concocted in my absence?"

"You get an hour with Gold, we need him alive. If everything goes according to plan, you get an hour head start to get away."

"Hmph."

Jones takes a sip of his coffee, and picks up the vase of lavender and white roses on the table, easily finding the recorder, then tossed it to the ground and crushed it with the heel of his boot. Emma didn't need to see Graham to know he was offended.

"Now that we have that out of the way." Jones says leaning forward, "Tell your bearded friend over there, the one that keeps looking over his book, tell him that this is a private conversation won't you Darling?"

He has that wolfish smile again, and it does funny things to her stomach when he looks at her like that. Emma glanced over at Graham and finger spells _go_.

_No,_ he signs back, and Emma gives him a thousand yard stare.

_gtfo, hurry!_

Graham closes his book with a petulant snap and stalks out of the coffee house. Jones watches the whole exchange with amusement.

"Now," he says once Graham has left the building, passing her one of the croissants, "First, just an hour? I am giving you some very valuable contacts, not to mention potentially endangering my life if any of them found out it was me who gave them up."

"Yes, but oddly enough the idea that you won't torture him into insanity seems unrealistic."

Emma pushes the croissant firmly back over to his side of the table and he scowls at her.

"What is your name, love? I insist."

She sighs, annoyed.

"Emma."

"Well _Emma_, how about I have three hours and you accompany me. And an half hour head start is not much of a head start Love."

"What, You're not that good?"

His eyes light up.

"Do you want to make a bet?"

"Fine, you have hour. Do we have a deal?"

"An hour head start and three hours with Gold under your supervision all in exchange for my contacts. Yes."

Emma took out a rectangular box wrapped in butcher paper with a string bow.

"Open this when you get home, and follow the instructions inside. You break the deal all bets are off."

Emma means to sweep quietly past him, but he catches her wrist with surprising gentleness.

"Just so you know, Pan is dangerous. Gold will have to scramble to make it up to him, probably by a new gun shipment. I'd start there if I had your resources," he says his hand lingering on her wrist before letting go.

"Any other advice?" she asks dryly.

"Yes, I deal with you. Not your other friends. You're much better to look at."

He winks and Emma gives a long suffering sigh. It surprises a smile out of him, and it does funny things to his stomach too, even though it's not wolfish or burning at all.


End file.
